Molly's Mind Flat
by cactusnell
Summary: Sherlock has a palace, Molly has a flat. Find out what she learns there. Sherlolly


Dr. Molly Hooper opened her eyes to find herself sitting on a couch in her sitting room. But not exactly her couch. And not exactly her sitting room. She recognized the piece of furniture as one she had coveted from the advertising section of the London Times a few weeks ago. One that she definitely couldn't afford. And the sitting room, while bearing a striking resemblance to her own, also had some striking differences. The walls, windowless, were covered with pictures, and there were shelves of book, and some filing cabinets. She looked around the room, and as quickly as she wished for a cup of tea to calm her nerves, one appeared in her hands. How convenient, she thought.

These thoughts were interrupted by a familiar baritone voice. "Problem, Dr. Hooper?" Sherlock Holmes was sitting in his chair, which actually was his chair, the one which she knew to be at his Baker Street flat, and studying her curiously. He wore his customary fitted suit, and a white shirt.

"Where am I, Sherlock?"

"Can't you deduce it yourself, Molly?"

"Could you not speak so loudly, please. My head is throbbing. I feel like I've been hit by a bloody bus!"

"Think, Molly! What is the last thing you remember?"

The pathologist tried to concentrate, but everything seemed a bit blurry, no small thanks to the drum solo going on in her cranium. "Welllll… I was outside the hospital...rushing to the tube...I had a large package…! I remember! I was on my way to Mary's baby shower. I was rushing because I was late. Some complicated cadaver, or something. I saw the tube stop, and stepped off the…" Molly's eyes widened. "Damn, I _**was**_ hit by a bloody bus!"

"Not really hit, per se, merely tapped a bit. It jerked forward as you passed in front, and down you went."

"Am I dead?"

"Does this look like the afterlife, Molly?" Sherlock snickered. "Anyway, you know I don't believe in an afterlife, so I probably wouldn't be here, now, would I?" The detective seemed to ponder the possibilities. "Perhaps, there is an afterlife, and this is your idea of heaven?"

"Don't be so smug, Sherlock. The idea of being trapped in a small room with you for eternity could qualify as either heaven or hell, as far as I am concerned at the moment."

"Nice to see you haven't lost your sense of humor, Molly." Sherlock leaned back in her chair, and looked at her with some concern. "So, figured it out yet? You're an intelligent woman. And a doctor. Deduce!"

"So. I've been hit, or tapped, by a bus. My head hurts. Concussion? I would guess that I'm unconscious, then. Coma? Great. Does everyone in a coma wind up in their own sitting room, with you?"

"I doubt it. I would have to spread myself pretty thin for that to happen. I would venture to guess that your unconscious mind is looking for something to do, when it floats up from that black hole it had been in for a while, there…"

"Black hole?"

"Well, yes. You seem to be drifting in and out a bit. So, while you're still here, let's figure out what you're doing, eh?"

"Can't you just tell me, Sherlock? You're making my head hurt even more!"

"Of course, I can't just tell you, Molly. I'm only a construct of your mind. I don't know anymore than you do, really. If I tell you something, it's only because you, yourself, have figured it out. So, go right ahead, figure it out! Look around you."

"Okay. It looks a bit like my flat, but it's not my flat. There are pictures, and book, and files. All information. Knowledge." Molly rose from her chair, and crossed to the nearest filing cabinet. Opening a drawer, she pulled out the file on Mike Stamford. Instantly, scraps of data appeared in her mind. Married. Happily. Nut allergy. Went to school with John Watson. "That's amazing!"

"Have you guessed yet?"

"I'm building my own mind palace! Right?"

Sherlock Holmes looked around with a derisive snort. "Palace, Molly? Hardly. It seems you're constructing a mind...er...flat."

"How come you get a palace, and I get a flat, Sherlock?"

"Really, Dr. Hooper, you have to ask?"

Molly glared at him, then soon remembered that he was, after all, her own construction. So she was not at all surprised when the detective continued, "Not to worry, Molly. My own mind palace started out as a woodshed in the back garden, after all. You can add to it as you wish."

"A kitchen?"

"Always convenient, if you enjoy cooking. I, myself, have a finely equipped laboratory. You may find you will need one of those, too. It's really up to you, you know. And you will find that the rooms will change, as your needs do."

"Do we need a bathroom, Sherlock?"

"I have several, Molly, but only because I like to make Anderson clean them. And Donovan, well, I make her…"

"Please, Sherlock, allow me to maintain some illusion of your gentlemanly behavior!"

"As you wish, Dr. Hooper, but I think you would approve!"

Molly, having always disliked Sally Donovan for her casual cruelty to the man she loved, would have to agree that she would, in all likelihood, approve. She looked over at the detective and smiled. He was now wearing his purple shirt and tight black jeans. She smiled even more. "I think I'm beginning to get the hang of this. See, I put you in your favorite shirt, Sherlock."

"And your favorite jeans, Molly!" He smirked at her once again, knowing that she loved the shirt as well, tightly fitted across his chest as it was. Toby then jumped onto the detective's lap. "Ah, the bloody cat. I might have known."

"Sherlock, some doctors believe that coma victims can hear what's going on around them. Why can't I hear anything?"

"Perhaps, you're not trying hard enough? Can you hear nothing at all? Feel nothing?"

Molly concentrated a bit more. "My head hurts, as I told you. And my hand feels warm. But I can't hear a thing."

"Try a bit harder, Molly. Perhaps you need to visualize something to help you…"

As if his words had given her an idea, an old fashioned radio appeared on the table next to the couch. It had no pushbuttons, or digital display, but a glass faceplate containing numbers, indicating radio frequencies. There was a knob that, when turned, moved an indicator backward and forward over these numbers. Molly leaned over the device and started turning the dial, hoping to find voices among the white noise it produced. But there was one thing she needed to tell the man sitting across from her, and she should probably do it now.

"Sherlock," she began hesitantly, not able to look at him. "If I never get out of this room, if I go once again into that black hole about which you spoke, there is something I need you to know. It's the one regret I have, and I know it may too late, but I've got to tell you that I love you…"

"Molly…"

"No, don't stop me! You have always known that I was infatuated with you. You thought it was a crush, and you used to take advantage. But I never minded. The truth is, you make me happy. I always smile when I see you. True, you sometimes make me cry, too. But you always make my heart smile. And it's not your fault. Heaven knows, you've done nothing to encourage me! So, you've got nothing to feel guilty about. I love you. Nothing you can do about it, so don't even try." Molly took a deep breath. "There, I feel better already." Then she returned to turning the knob on the antiquated device.

This went on for quite a while, and Molly would sometimes feel herself drift off as the blackness carried her away. But she always returned to the sitting room, and Sherlock, and the radio. Finally she caught what seemed to be a snippet of John Watson's voice.

"...three days, mate. You need to eat. To sleep…"

A deep baritone answered him. "I'm fine, John. Go home to Mary. I'm staying…"

Molly Hooper smiled, as she once again felt the warmth in her hand, but she laid her head down on the arm of the couch as the darkness came over her once again.

"Will? I've brought the things you requested, dear. Now, please, go freshen up…"

"I can't leave her, Mummy…" said the familiar baritone.

"I won't leave her for a second, love. Mycroft and I will watch over her."

"Sherlock, please do as Mummy requests." Mycroft Holmes' voice came through the radio. "It won't due to have Dr. Hooper awaken to find you in such a state." Molly thought his voice sounded remarkably gentle.

"You remembered the purple shirt? And the black jeans?" the detective asked in a quiet voice. "Her favorites," he muttered, as if that explained everything.

"So I gathered, brother. You wear the damned shirt often enough! On your way. I won't let Mummy spill too many of your secrets while you're gone!"

Molly felt the the warmth in her hand recede once again, but it was soon replaced. She felt herself drifting off, but not into darkness, this time, just a kind of comforting haze, as she once again laid her head on the arm of the couch. Snippets of a kindly woman's voice made their way through this haze.

"...wanted to be a pirate. Buried my jewelry in the back garden…"

"Damn it, woman, you did get most of it back!" This came from the Sherlock sitting on his chair in her mind pal...flat.

"...documentary about flatulence containing methane gas...tried to set a fart on fire...burned trousers…"

"Do shut up, Mummy!"

"...developed scurvy while at Uni…,poor eating habits...Scurvy, do you believe it. Must have still believed he was a bloody pirate!"

"Well, the drug use may have been one thing contributing to my bad choices, Mummy!"

Molly started to drift off into what seemed like a true sleep, still smiling at the little confidences the woman had shared, when she was startled back into wakefulness by one last whispered observation. "He loves you so much, you know, dear. Please forgive him for never telling you. I fear he may never forgive himself."

Molly wanted to stay alert, to hear more, but sleep was calling her. Sherlock got up from his chair and approached the couch. He sat down next to her, and pulled her into his arms, running his hand over her long brown hair until she drifted off. Molly noticed that her head no longer throbbed, and the warmth that she had felt in her hand had now spread throughout her body. When she finally felt comfortable enough to open her eyes, she found herself, not in her imaginary domain, but in a rather brightly lit hospital room. Sherlock Holmes was lying in the bed next to her, holding her close. She could hear his gentle snore in her ear. _Great_, she thought, _I'm finally awake, and he's out cold!_ She glanced about to find an striking elderly woman sitting in a chair studying her carefully.

"I see you decided to rejoin us, my dear," Mrs. Violet Holmes said is a kindly, and very quiet, voice, almost a whisper. "My son hasn't slept in three days, and I am sure he will be very angry to have missed this!"

"You call him Will?"

"Ah, you heard that, did you? Sometimes I do, my dear, when he seems particularly lost and vulnerable. He seems so much more like my little Will, and not that arrogant git Sherlock Holmes."

"More like the scurvy pirate?"

Violet Holmes smile grew even wider. "Heard that, too!" The older woman looked at her son, and Molly, with such affection, that's Molly's smile grew even wider, too. Violet lifted herself from the chair. "My husband, and Mycroft, are out in search of coffee, my dear. I think I shall join them. You should consider giving the great lump in the bed with you an elbow to the ribs. I'm sure he has some things to tell you. And if he doesn't, you tell him to come see me. I'll straighten him out!" Mrs. Holmes approached the bed and gave Molly a kiss on the forehead. "Welcome to the family dear. Sorry it took a bus to get you here!" She then turned and left the room, just as Molly turned to give the love of her life a sharp jab in the ribs.


End file.
